The League of Red-Headed Gentlemen
by WillSherJohnKhan
Summary: The Red Headed League - a 21st century retelling.
1. A Reluctant Volunteer

221B BAKER STREET

"This is intolerable!" Mycroft complained, a pained expression on his face as he observed himself in the full-length mirror.

Molly turned to the tall man standing next to her. "Too much?" she asked, her teeth worrying her lower lip.

"Not at all," Sherlock assured her. "It's perfect."

"Is this absolutely necessary?" the elder Holmes enquired as he turned from side to side, only to find no improvement in his reflection.

"Mycroft I'm surprised at you," Sherlock reprimanded the man who claimed to be merely a minor government official. "I would have thought you of all people would want to see this situation sorted out as quickly and as quietly as possible. It being a matter of national security after all."

Though the worlds only consulting detectives statement was made with all the solemnity that the situation required, Molly nonetheless detected the unashamed delight that beckoned from behind his enigmatic blue/green eyes. Not to mention the hint of a smirk that twitched at the corners of his cupids bow lips.

Thankfully Mycroft was too occupied with fussing over his outfit to notice.

However the whole situation had become too much for John, who had managed to maintain his composure up until that point. So with his head bowed and his body shaking uncontrollably, he finally gave in to a fit of hysterical laughter.

Sherlock turned and glared at him.

Anthea, Mycroft's dedicated personal everything had been watching the whole interaction silently. She now made her way over to Sherlock's side. "He will have your head for this, you know that don't you?" she remarked.

Sherlock in turn raised an inquisitive, elegant eyebrow. "Why Anthea, whatever do you mean?"


	2. An Odd Curiosity

221B BAKER STREET – 24 HOURS EARLIER

Doctor John Watson, formally of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers made his way up the stairs of the residence he had once shared with his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

He hadn't heard from the detective for over a week and that had him worried. If Sherlock were to become bored there was a danger that he would succumb to the temptation offered by whatever drug of choice was at his disposal.

Granted the last time he had done so had been for a case, though those closest to him had been sceptical that it had been the only reason he had chosen to do so. A smile played upon the doctor's lips as he recalled what had happened when Sherlock's drug use was confirmed by a positive result from a urine test performed by St Bart's pathologist, Molly Hooper.

John's smile widened as he remembered Molly's reaction that had taken everyone by surprise, especially Sherlock. Normally so quiet and shy, she had slapped the unrepentant detective not once, but three times.

The professional in John sincerely hoped that it would not be necessary again, but his evil twin was more than happy to be witness to a repeat performance.

"Ah John, excellent timing." Sherlock said, clearly pleased to see his friend. He was sitting in his usual chair, while seated on the sofa was a man who looked very uncomfortable.

Sherlock turned to his client. "This is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson. I'm sure you're aware of his rather imaginative blog detailing our little adventures."

"Hello," John said as he walked over to shake the man's hand.

"This is Jabez Wilson," Sherlock stated by way of introduction. "He works for Mycroft."

"You have my sympathies," John responded as he took his seat.

Sherlock continued. "My brother may claim to be merely a minor government official, but Mr Wilson here actually is one."

Jabez Wilson if possible looked even more uncomfortable, but he kept his tongue, clearly used to the ways of the Holmes brothers.

When no further explanation was forthcoming John took the opportunity to observe their new client.

Jabez Wilson was in his mid to late twenties. He was a small man, around five foot four inches, and although not obese, it was clear that if he didn't do something to improve his health soon that was the direction he was headed. As it was he had clearly found climbing the stairs to Sherlock's flat quite an effort, if the colour of his cheeks were anything to go by. His most striking feature that was impossible to miss was his mass of fiery red hair.

Sherlock saw everything that John did, but he had also noted that Jabez wanted to be seen as someone who was important and going places, hence his decision to take an administrative position in the British Government. But Sherlock also saw that he lacked the drive and initiative to advance himself into the areas that would make him the man he aspired to be. He was also of a nervous disposition, especially when Mycroft's name was mentioned.

It was this that intrigued Sherlock the most. It was clear that something had happened recently, some rash decision or an error in judgement that has forced Jabez Wilson to engage the services of his employer's younger brother.

Time to find out what was going on.

"Now Mr Wilson," Sherlock began. "What brings you here today?"

Jabez took a deep breath and began. "As you know I work…"

Sherlock raised a hand to interrupt him, sighing impatiently. "Don't waste my time and yours by giving me details that I can easily discover simply by asking my brother."

Jabez's florid cheeks went from pink to ashen grey in an instant.

"Tell me the details," Sherlock continued calmly, "about what happened. What has you worried you'll lose your job?"

Jabez started again. "Two weeks ago I was doing some errands for Mr Holmes when I bumped into Vincent Spaulding, a clerk who has recently started working for the department. We got into conversation…" he paused, looking more than a little sheepish.

Sherlock raised an enquiring eyebrow, but said nothing.

The government employee finally rattled off as quickly as possible. "We let off some steam concerning out respective over demanding bosses."

Upon receiving no rebuke for his disrespectful comments concerning the detective's brother, Jabez felt confident enough to continue.

"Our conversation then took a different turn."

"I wish to God that I had red hair like yours," Vincent says out of the blue.

"Why's that?" I ask.

"Why?" says he. "Because then I could become a member of The Red Headed League."

"The what?" says I.

He looked at me in amazement. "How is it possible that you don't know of it? With hair like yours I'm certain you would be the envy of the League."

I was of course by now most intrigued. "Tell me about it," says I. And so he did.

"Please enlighten us," Sherlock requested.

"According to Vincent Spaulding, The Red Headed League was founded by Ezekiah Hopkins one hundred years ago. Ezekiah was a government clerk and wished to set up a place for minor government employees. It was a place where they could let off steam about their employers without fear of it getting back to them. And as he was red-headed and had quite a temper that was forever getting him into trouble because he would not hold his tongue, he decided that members of the group should have red hair only."

"Interesting," Sherlock noted. "So what happens at the league for red headed gentlemen?"

"It was apparently based on The Diogenes Club, the main difference of course is that silence is frowned upon."

"So basically it's a place where disgruntled government employees with red hair go to bitch and moan about their bosses," John clarified.

Jabez nodded.

"I need one of those."

"That's why you have Mary," Sherlock retorted.

The friend's banter ended when they noted how downcast their client had suddenly become.

"Something changed," Sherlock stated.

Again Jabez nodded. "It was a great place to relax and unwind. I fully admit to my everlasting shame that I mocked my employer mercilessly, saying ridiculous things like how he wasn't as clever as he made himself appear, that he was in fact extremely insecure and would do anything to get people to like him."

"So, basically describing yourself," Sherlock noted a dangerous edge in his tone.

It didn't go unnoticed.

"Yes," Jabez replied quietly.

"As my brother is also red-headed, I assume they were interested in recruiting him as a member."

Jabez swallowed nervously. "Not only that, but they became very insistent about seeing some documents in his possession."

Sherlock leaned forward, looking intently into his client's eyes.

"They wanted to see compromising documents, concerning the British Government backing certain organizations that have turned out to have affiliations with certain terrorist groups…"

Sherlock leaned back and smiled. "Clever," he murmured.

And then.

"Tell me more about Victor Spaulding."

Confused by the change in direction, Jabez queried. "What?"

"Describe Victor Spaulding to me."

"Short, thick-set, but agile."

"And his features?"

"Clean-shaven. He's older than I am, but appears younger. And he has a nasty scar on his forehead."

"Any piercings?"

Jabez thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, in both ears," he replied.

Sherlock leapt to his feet, assisted Jabez up off the sofa and ushered him to the door. "Go home Mr Wilson. I assure you I will have the situation sorted within 24 hours."

Jabez Wilson looked immensely relieved. "Thank you Mr Holmes, I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"Don't thank me yet," Sherlock began.

Jabez was already making his way down the stairs and didn't hear Sherlock continue. "You don't know what I have in mind."

"So you really think you can get this wrapped up that quickly?" John asked.

"I know I can," Sherlock responded confidently. "I need to go to Bart's to see Molly about something. If you and Mary could meet me back here this time tomorrow I should have everything organised."

Once John had left Sherlock got out his mobile and began typing.

What game are you playing now? – SH

A moment later he received a reply.

Who says I'm playing?

"Damn!" he fumed.

Pocketing his mobile he reached for his Belstaff and headed outside to hail a taxi.


	3. Making Plans

ST BART'S MORGUE – 22 HOURS EARLIER

Sherlock and Molly's relationship began immediately upon his return from exile. Short as that exile had admittedly been, it had been enough to bring into sharp focus the depth of feeling that the consulting detective had for the shy pathologist.

As soon as he was off the plane, he'd run over to Mycroft's car and ordered the driver to take him to St Bart's.

The relief he'd felt upon finding her unharmed had only confirmed in his mind that it was time he accepted and openly acknowledged the emotions that stirred within him concerning her.

He cared very deeply for Molly Hooper, and he was now prepared to show her.

Their family, friends and associates accepted their relationship with varying degrees of relief, bemusement and tolerance.

It was certainly not the most conventional of relationships to be sure.

Sherlock was still very reserved when it came to showing his affections. But Molly understood that with every kiss on the cheek, every brush of his hand and every affectionate look that he bestowed upon her, he was expressing to the best of his abilities the growing depth of his feelings. He may not have told her that he loved her yet, but he didn't need to. She knew.

That wasn't to say that Molly wouldn't like their relationship to progress to the next level. In fact she'd already decided that if by the end of the month Sherlock hadn't taken the next step himself, then she was fully prepared to drag him into the bedroom, and keep him there for a week, and hopefully by then her genius would have figured it out.

These pleasant daydreams were interrupted when the man himself barged into the morgue.

"Hello Sherlock," she said. "What brings you here?"

Sherlock walked over to her and kissed her on the cheek. "Can't I just come to visit my… significant other?" he replied cautiously.

Molly gave him an assessing look, the type that made him highly uncomfortable, as she was able to read him so well.

In the end she just smiled softly as she asked. "What do you need?'

"You," came his instant response. It had become a ritual that had its origins when he'd asked for her help when he staged his own death. But now the meaning of her question and his reply held another significance, a code that only they knew.

"You on a case?"

"Yes, a rather unusual one. But one that could have consequences for the nation if not handled with care."

"And you're here because…?" she asked, a little perplexed. The political arena was more Mycroft's area than hers.

"I need you to buy some items of clothing for me," Sherlock replied as he reached into his coat pocket and produced a list that he handed her. "I've noted down the sizes you need to buy."

Molly looked down at the list and frowned. "Wouldn't it be better if you bought these clothes? You and I have completely different…"

"That's precisely why I need you to purchase them," he said. "Keep the receipts and bring everything to Baker Street tomorrow." He then looked at his watch. "I've got to go. Will see you tomorrow."

Then with another kiss, this time to her forehead, he turned and swept out of the morgue, leaving a still slightly puzzled Molly behind.

As Sherlock left Barts he sent a text.

Don't do anything yet. I may have a solution more to your liking. – SH

A moment later he received a response.

You know I'm always open to suggestions…

THE DIOGINESE CLUB – PRIVATE ROOM - 20 HOURS EARLIER

"I will do no such thing," Mycroft stated adamantly.

"You don't have any other alternative," Sherlock told him. "Its either this or you put the security of the nation in jeopardy."

"Is there no other way?"

"I'm afraid not."

"How certain are you that this will go no further?"

"I wouldn't ask this of you Mycroft unless I was absolutely certain," Sherlock assured him. But he couldn't help but add. "Just think of it as another experiment in interacting with normal people."

Mycroft shuddered at the mere thought of it.

"Very well," the elder Holmes said in resignation, knowing he had little choice. "But rest assured, Jabez Wilson will pay for this."

"Of that I have no doubt," Sherlock responded as he headed out the door. "I'll see you at Baker Street tomorrow."


	4. Into Action

221B BAKER STREET – THE PRESENT

The scene that Lestrade walked into when he entered Baker Street was a hive of activity.

Molly and Mrs Hudson were doing their best to calm a highly agitated Mycroft.

The Detective Inspector couldn't say he blamed the older Holmes brother, dressed as he was in an ensemble of garish, bright coloured garments made from cheap materials that looked like they came right out of the 1960s. They were a far cry from his usual staid, conservative and sensible fashion choices.

Meanwhile Sherlock and Anthea were deep in conversation, their main topic clearly Mycroft, whom they both kept a close eye on.

And then there were the Watson's, both of who were currently checking and re-checking their weapons of choice.

"Is that really necessary?" Lestrade asked. "This is a simple raid. I've brought my best officers, I'm sure they'll be no need for back-up."

"Better to be safe than sorry Lestrade, one can never be too cautious when dealing with the criminal classes," Sherlock explained as he made his way over to him, before lowering his voice so that only Lestrade could hear. "A precaution only. It wouldn't do for the British Government to lose one of its finest."

"Of course," Lestrade replied, nodding his understanding.

Despite the fact Sherlock bickered with his older sibling, there was no way he would wish him to be in harms way.

"So, everything set?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep," Lestrade replied, barely able to contain his glee. "There will be no escape for John Clay this time. Assuming he's there."

"Oh he will," Sherlock stated confidently. "I can guarantee it."

"John Clay?" John asked slightly confused.

"John Clay is a remarkable young man," Lestrade noted, somewhat begrudgingly. "He was born into a privileged background. One of his ancestors was a Royal Duke. He was educated at Eton and Oxford, and by all accounts he could have leant his talents to any number of worthy professions. But John Clay decided to use his intellect and resources to become the go-to man to any number of criminal organizations that were willing to pay handsomely for his services. "

"So, he's the one behind The Red-Headed League," John clarified.

"Oh no," Lestrade replied. "For all his high-born ways, he prefers to allow others to receive all the acclaim. We have a number of outstanding cases that bare his unmistakable cunning."

When John failed to connect the importance of this individual to their case, Sherlock stepped in to supply the relevant information.

"In this particular instance," Sherlock explained. "John Clay is going under the pseudonym Vincent Spaulding."

Feeling slightly foolish not to have made the connection earlier, John instead remarked to Lestrade. "So I take it you've not been able to apprehend him?"

"Not even close," came the morose response.

"Cheer up Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Today is going to be your lucky day."

Sherlock now turned his attention to his brother. From his jacket pocket he withdrew a flash-drive. "You're going to need this," he said as he handed it over.

"What's on it?" Mycroft asked as he took it.

"It contains what The Red-Headed League believe are a number of sensitive, top secret government files. You are to accidentally allow this drive to fall out of your pocket so that a light fingered member of the league can acquire it."

"What's really on that flash-drive?" Molly asked, knowing full well that Sherlock would have included something very particular.

Sherlock bestowed a rare genuine smile in her direction before he went on to explain. "Should anyone attempt to access this drive or any copies they may make they will find that the file they are after is encrypted. Once they have broken through the encryption they will not find the information they seek. Breaking the encryption will however release a particularly parasitic computer virus that will destroy any and all information contained on whatever device they are using."

"Brilliant," Lestrade breathed, hugely impressed.

But Sherlock was not finished. "Not only that," he continued. "Attached to the virus is a tracking device. So should anyone escape the raid, they will not be at large for long."

Satisfied that everything was in place and that everyone knew what was expected of them. Sherlock checked his watch before turning to Lestrade. "I believe its time to get this show on the road."

And with that everyone exited the flat and headed out.

While Lestrade and the others were engaged in organising transport, Sherlock took his time walking down the stairs from his flat.

Though his pace down the steps was leisurely the same could not be said for his fingers as they quickly typed out a message.

We're on our way. – SH

It was only as he pressed send that Sherlock realised not everyone was waiting for him out on the pavement on Baker Street. Molly stood patiently for him at the bottom of the stairs.

OUTSIDE THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE – THE PRESENT

Down the street from a fairly unremarkable building was a just as unassuming van. But the van, like the building, was not all that it appeared.

Inside the cramped interior of the van sat Lestrade, Sherlock, John, Mary, Anthea and Molly. They were all huddled around a computer screen.

Anthea had transferred the CCTV life feed from all the cameras in the area and ran it through the laptop set up in the van. All cameras had been moved into position so that they had complete access to all areas surrounding the building. And most importantly they had clear vision of Mycroft.

"I don't see John Clay anywhere," Lestrade grumbled, clearly concerned. It would be quite a feather in his cap should he finally nab him.

"He's there, skulking around in the shadows," Sherlock replied. "Don't worry Lestrade, you will have him in custody very soon."

Onscreen Mycroft was the centre of attention. It was clear to all in the van that he was not comfortable, but he was doing his best to hide it.

When Mycroft had been there for an agonising twenty minutes, and while everyone's attention was focussed on Mycroft, Sherlock sent off a quick text.

You've had time to get more than enough photos. – SH

He was relieved he'd remembered to put his mobile on silent before leaving Baker Street when he received a response immediately.

For now -

Sherlock responded.

A deal is a deal. Don't make me come after you. – SH

The response.

Promises, promises –

Shortly after.

Fine. Deal complete. Always a pleasure –

Sherlock grinned, knowing he'd won this round. But his triumph was tempered when he became aware that Molly was watching him.

From the look on her face, he wondered just how much she'd worked out.

Before he could ponder the situation further, John reported. "Mycroft's dropped the flash-drive."

"And someone's just collected it," Mary noted.

"Then its time we made a move," Lestrade stated as he reached for the police radio.

Everything went as planned.

Molly stayed inside the van to monitor the video footage and to warn the others of anything unexpected or untoward.

Lestrade and his officers stormed the building, making multiple arrests. Sherlock, John and Anthea followed immediately after to assist Mycroft.

Outside the building Mary had taken up her position.

She waited.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned her head, and sure enough she could just make out the figure of a man doing his best to slip away.

With her gun in one hand, a torch in the other, she pointed both in the direction of the fleeing figure, taking him completely by surprise.

"Going somewhere?" she asked politely.

John Clay briefly considered making a run for it. But then he became aware of the laser sighting resting over his heart, and he caught a glimpse of the steely determination in the former assassins eyes, and he raised his hands in surrender.

He knew the game was up.

His demeanour changed however when Lestrade attempted to place him in handcuffs.

"Don't you touch me with your filthy hands," he snarled. "I'm a descendant of royalty, and you will do me the courtesy to address me as 'sir'."

"Fine," Lestrade replied. "Would 'sir' please hold out his hands so that I may cuff him and escort him to Scotland Yard."

"That's better," Clay serenely responded, inclining his head to those gathered as he was placed in the Police van with the others."

Once Lestrade had gone, Sherlock turned to the others. "Back to Baker Street I think."

"Not for me," Mycroft said. "I intend to return home and try to pretend this incident never happened."


	5. Consequences

THE RED HEADED LEAGUE – 12 HOURS EARLIER

Sherlock approached the non-descript building. "Any sign of movement?" he asked seemingly to no one in particular.

Or at least that is how it would appear to anyone walking past.

"Nuffin' so far," came the muffled response from the Consulting Detective's self-appointed protégé, Billy Wiggins, who was currently huddled in a dirty blanket on the footpath a couple of feet away.

Sherlock walked up to the front door and gave a brisk knock, then waited.

There was no response.

Reaching for the inside pocket of his belstaff, he withdrew his toolkit.

Within moments he'd unpicked the lock and entered the building where The Red Headed League did their business.

But all he found was empty space.

Sherlock first went to the room that Jabez Wilson had told him was where their gatherings were held.

It was completely empty.

A closer inspection revealed that furniture had indeed been in the room, and recently. Judging from the number of scuffmarks on the wooden floor it was clear that the furniture had been moved in and out several times.

The marks had been concealed under several heavy-duty rugs that were used on the nights of the meetings.

As Sherlock moved from room to room, it was obvious that a number of other rooms had likewise been similarly staged.

But only enough to convince the gullible Jabez that The League was legitimate.

In reality, it was a meticulously planned set up. The sole purpose of the elaborate scheme was to ensnare not Jabez, but Mycroft.

Mycroft was their target.

Sherlock left the building and made his way down the street in search of a taxi.

As he walked past Wiggins, he left one final instruction. "Text me when they return."

NEW SCOTLAND YARD – 10 HOURS EARLIER

Sherlock strode with confidence into the office of the very dejected looking Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

That morning he'd been in court for the fourth, possibly fifth time in an attempt to get a conviction for the notorious Waters family.

And yet again, they'd somehow managed to walk out free.

It was at times like this that he seriously considered quitting the police force.

"Cheer up Lestrade," Sherlock stated. "I believe I have something that will put the spring back in your step."

"Oh," Lestrade replied cautiously. "And what's that?"

"John Clay."

Lestrade immediately sat up straight in his chair, the Waters completely forgotten.

"You have John Clay?"

"No, " Sherlock replied. "But you will later tonight. Come round to Baker Street this evening and I'll explain."

And with that Sherlock turned and swept back out of the office.

On the street outside New Scotland Yard Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began to type.

You can take as many photos as you like. My price is John Clay. – SH

A little while later he received a response.

John Clay is nothing to me, merely a means to an end. You can have him. Always a pleasure. –

221B BAKER STREET – THE PRESENT

"So you knew who was behind The Red Headed League then?" John asked.

"I had my suspicions by the time Jabez Wilson had finished his narrative," Sherlock responded casually.

"And are you going to share with us just who it is?" John queried, more than a little hurt that Sherlock hadn't seen fit to share his suspicions with him at the time.

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh. "I didn't tell you earlier John because your priorities have changed, or at least they should have now that you have a child."

John opened his mouth to say something further, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Once I'd confirmed to my own satisfaction who it was and what they were doing and why, I knew that I could handle the majority of the situation on my own."

"But are you going to at least tell us who it was?" Mary asked.

"No," Sherlock replied, surprising everyone. "All I will say," he relented, realising he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't, "is that they were briefly an associate of James Moriarty."

"And you're certain you can trust this person?" John queried, clearly concerned.

"As much as it is possible with these type of people," came the unsatisfactory response.

And then.

"It was never about exposing the security of the country. It was about Mycroft."

"So it was a personal vendetta?"

"Very much so, hence their willingness to accept my compromise."

John shook his head in disbelief. "I still can't believe they agreed, or that they will keep their word."

"It will go no further. They have what they want," Sherlock assured them. "And they know better than to cross me."

Sensing he wasn't going to get any further with his current line of questioning, John switched gears.

"Will you tell Mycroft?"

"Its tempting. But I think he's suffered enough for one day."

Explanations over the Watson's said their goodbyes and headed home.

That left only one. And she had remained silent throughout, worryingly so.

Sherlock braced himself.

He didn't have to wait long.

"She likes games doesn't she," Molly noted.

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to deny what she had clearly figured out.

Molly had already proved her uncanny ability to read him. Outside of his immediate family she was the only one who could.

"Its what she does. Plays a dangerous game while obtaining all kinds of sensitive information. All in the name of protection." As Molly spoke she remembered the dead woman's corpse that Sherlock identified by her measurements. The woman who returned from the dead and then managed to escape imprisonment by getting into the Witness Protection Program in the United States. "She's taken a risk returning to the UK hasn't she? She'd be better off if she stayed in the US."

Sherlock took a deep breath before responding. "She never was in the Witness Protection Program."

"Oh."

"That was just the cover story Mycroft created for my benefit."

"So where was she?"

"She'd been captured by a terrorist group in Pakistan and was beheaded."

"Except that she clearly wasn't."

"No."

"You rescued her, didn't you?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

Molly stayed silent as she processed all that he had said, and what he hadn't. She considered the implications surrounding the case, and what he was willing to allow his brother to be put through. She had no doubt that Sherlock had considered his options very carefully when it came to Mycroft and weighing the security of the nation and the scandal that would have been caused should the information been released against some temporary embarrassment for the self-proclaimed minor government official.

That she could accept. But there were other aspects, including his unwillingness to confide in her. That was what really hurt.

Just when she thought they'd finally come to an understanding, that they knew they could trust each other implicitly.

"I have to go," she said suddenly, making her way over to the door.

"Molly, wait," Sherlock intercepted her, turning her around to face him.

He took her face in his hands and leant down, resting his forehead against hers and looked deeply into her wounded eyes. "I wanted to tell you," he said softly. "But I was worried how you'd react once you knew who was behind it."

When she remained silent. Sherlock pressed gentle kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, and then her lips. "Believe me it had nothing to do with not trusting you…"

Molly stepped back out of his embrace.

"Time," she whispered, looking up at him, noting his distraught expression. "I need time to…" Unable to find the words she reached up and kissed him on the lips. She could feel their tears mingling, combining.

She looked at the man she loved. How to explain her conflicted emotions when she herself was having difficulty putting them into words?

"Goodbye Sherlock," she said before turning and leaving.

Sherlock didn't attempt to stop her. He just let her walk away.

Once the front door closed, Sherlock walked over to the window and watched as Molly hailed a passing taxi. No sooner had it driven off than he received a text.

Let's have dinner. –

He didn't send a reply. He was about to put his phone away when another message arrived.

Sherringford sends his regards. –

He stared at the message for a moment or two before returning his mobile to his jacket pocket. He then picked up his violin and began to play Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet's Fantasy Overture.


End file.
